


Fealty

by missingnolovefic



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Achievement Hunter Kings, Alternate Universe - Medieval, First Kiss, First Meetings, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Violence, Oaths & Vows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 13:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16160324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingnolovefic/pseuds/missingnolovefic
Summary: Michael's sworn fealty to his king thrice over: first when he was eleven, twice when he accepted his father's legacy, and for the third time when he drenched the court in the blood of their enemies.





	Fealty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sorcererinslytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorcererinslytherin/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Sorc! <3 I know you've been missing that sweet, sweet myan content lately, so I hope you like this little story :D

The first time Mìcheal visited court was immediately after the death of the old king.

Before, his father had always insisted Mìcheal was too young to join him on the strenuous journey down the mountains, into the rich, green valleys of the kingdom. But now, tradition demanded he pay his respects to the crown as his father’s firstborn.

Mìcheal knelt next to his father in front of the throne, arms spread in front of him to present his spoils: A fine pelt of black fur, long and silken to the touch, was draped over his arms. Behind them knelt a delegation of their best warriors, carrying more gifts in honour of the late king and his son’s ascension to the throne. The boy-king was maybe a handful of winters older than Mìcheal, with the lanky limbs of a still growing youth.

“Thane Duncan,” the boy-king spoke, voice pitched low. Mìcheal wondered if he was trying to sound more grown-up, and then he wondered if he realized how badly he was butchering his father’s name. “You have travelled a long way to come here.”

“As is only right, considering the circumstances,” Donnchadh rumbled, bowing his head and pressing his fist to his chest. “We have come to pay tribute.”

The boy-king waved his hand, and Donnchadh rose to his feet. Mìcheal remained where he knelt, trying to watch them from under his fringe.

“Your father was a good man, Your Majesty. His loss is felt by the entire kingdom,” Donnchadh said, his gruff voice echoing through the hall. “In his honour and his name, we pledge our allegiance anew to his kingdom and throne under your reign, King Ryan.”

“Long may he reign,” the delegation murmured as one.

“To the kingdom and the throne,” the boy-king repeated slowly. Mìcheal glanced up at the tone, sensing a trap in the words, but unable to puzzle it out. “But not to me?”

“That’s my job,” Mìcheal blurted out, frowning up at the boy-king. Icy blue eyes turned to him, and Mìcheal straightened.

“And you are?” the boy-king asked, giving him a dismissive once-over. Mìcheal bristled, opening his mouth-

“My son, Mìcheal,” Donnchadh introduced, hand landing on his shoulder and gripping tightly. Mìcheal snapped his mouth shut with an audible click. “He went on his first hunt and fell a black bear. As per tradition, he brought the fur as a tribute to Your Majesty.”

“I remember my father wore a similar cloak,” the boy-king mused, gaze sliding back to Mìcheal’s father. “Deer fur, if I recall?”

“Yes, sire.”

The boy-king hummed, his attention returning to Mìcheal.

“How old are you, boy?”

“I just survived my eleventh winter, sire,” Mìcheal stated proudly. The boy-king hummed again, more skeptically this time.

“That’s quite young, wouldn’t you say?”

The remark was directed at Donnchadh, but Mìcheal bristled.

“Says the boy-king,” he shot back.

Silence descended upon the court. The king sat stiff and regal in his throne, emanating menace. He glared down at Mìcheal, who met his eyes squarely. Donnchadh’s fingers dug into his shoulder, but Mìcheal ignored the pain.

“I beg your pardon?” King Ryan asked silkily.

Mìcheal raised his head, chin jutting out defiantly.

“That’s what they call you, isn’t it?” Mìcheal bared his teeth in a smile. “You’re not that much older than me.”

“Do they.” King Ryan’s eyes narrowed. Mìcheal shrugged and nodded.

“I apologize for my son, Your Majesty,” Donnchadh said, bowing low. “It is his first time at court. I ask for your lenience.”

“Lenience,” King Ryan echoed, cocking his head. “You refuse to swear fealty to me, offer this _brat_ in your place, and then you expect lenience for the insult?”

Mìcheal rolled his eyes. Didn’t the boy-king know anything? And he took offense at _Mìcheal’s_ youth.

“Of course Father isn’t going to swear himself to you, dumbass.”

All eyes turned to him. Mìcheal felt them like tiny pinpricks on the back of his neck.

“ _Mìcheal_ ,” Donnchadh hissed, but Mìcheal pressed on, bulldozing over his father’s objection.

“He’s blood-bonded to your father. He’ll serve you well because you are the old king’s son and legacy, but he’s not going to swear himself to anyone, duh. It’d be disrespectful to his blood-brother’s spirit.”

Mìcheal cocked his head, staring up at the boy-king. He’d grown up further South due to his mother’s wishes. Perhaps he hadn’t known? He certainly looked taken aback.

“Didn’t anyone tell you?” Mìcheal asked, too curious for his own good.

“They’ve neglected to mention that part,” the boy-king said dryly. He stood up in one fluid motion, stepping down from the dais. “So you’re supposed to swear fealty in your father’s place? Michael, was it?”

Donnchadh’s nails dug sharply into his skin in warning, so Mìcheal refrained from correcting the boy-king’s pronunciation. But his father didn’t step in to talk, either, so Mìcheal swallowed and lifted the fur up.

“Yes, sire.” Mìcheal rolled his shoulders back, pushing out his chest. “I follow in my father’s step and will be chieftain after him.”

“Hmm.” King Ryan stopped in front of him, trailing his fingers through the soft fur of the pelt. “Does that mean you wish to… blood-bond as well?”

“Only if you prove worthy,” Mìcheal shot back, flashing him a smile. They boy-king startled, looking at him for a long moment. He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching as he looked back down at the pelt.

“A black bear, you said,” the boy-king mused, his hand resting above Mìcheal’s with only the fur separating them. “Slain by your own hand?”

“Yes, sire.” Mìcheal grinned up at the king.

“An impressive gift indeed,” King Ryan murmured, staring down at the pelt. Finally, he retracted his hand, as if reluctant to stop touching it. “Very well. We shall see if you live up to your promise.”

 

* * *

 

Mìcheal visited court several times after that, learning at his father’s side. He met their clan’s allies and enemies, as well as their children - his peers.

He’d gained a reputation for his bluntness that first time. And while his father despaired over his manners, the boy-king seemed to appreciate his honesty.

“It’s not like you don’t know the customs,” Ryan mused, having pulled Mìcheal aside. The boy-king did that every visit, just spending a handful of moments to talk in privacy. “You just disregard them if you don’t see the point.”

“Beating around the bush is just a waste of time,” Mìcheal grumbled, crossing his arms.

“I’d call you impatient, except…” King Ryan trailed off. “When you hunt… Have you ever stalked your prey?”

Mìcheal thought back to when the older warriors of the clan taught him and the other children. He remembered the long tracks through snow in winter, the waiting in bushes in spring. You did not kill a mother raising her foals or cubs, but you didn’t want the sick buck either. And sometimes the deer would run, so you had to follow them. They might be quicker, but they never ran too far.

“I guess.” Mìcheal wrinkled his nose, not quite sure how that applied to _court_ of all things but… He tilted his head. Maybe there was something to that thought.

 

* * *

 

Mìcheal visited court alone for the first time after his twentieth winter. It had been a harsh one, and despite all preparations, they’d been low on food halfway through. Donnchadh died on the desperate hunt for meat, to make sure the clan survived until snowmelt.

“My condolences for your loss, Thane Michael,” King Ryan murmured, and he sounded sincere, too.

“Thank you, sire,” Mìcheal returned tiredly, not even bothering to correct the king’s pronunciation. He wondered if that was how his father felt, too. Not many at court bothered to learn, after all.

And the way the king spoke his name… It wasn’t that far off anyway.

 

* * *

 

The next time Mìcheal visited court it was with a warning and a plea.

“Your Majesty.” Mìcheal knelt in front of the throne, head bowed in reverence.

“You seek shelter. For your whole clan?” King Ryan sounded thoughtful. “How many of you are there?”

His warriors shifted behind him, a tense mutter going through the ranks, but Mìcheal didn’t look up.

“About ten dozen who are able to travel, Your Majesty.” Mìcheal swallowed. The sickness had reduced their numbers drastically. “Those who are too ill will stay behind, as will those who take care of them.”

“Ten dozen!” an old man exclaimed. At the king’s sharp look, he stepped forward and bowed. “Your Majesty, there is no way we can feed that many extra mouths for a whole winter!”

An agreeable murmur went through the court.

“It’s going to be a harsh winter. Harsher than even last year,” Mìcheal added. Perhaps it was undermining his point, but he’d never lied to King Ryan before. He would not start now.

“Look at me, Michael,” the king commanded, and Mìcheal lifted his gaze off the floor. King Ryan’s face was a blank mask, his eyes the cold blue of a winter sky. Except… something softened in his expression as he returned Mìcheal’s look.

“You have served me well, Thane Michael, as did your father before you, as has your clan since the founding of this mormaerdom. Your people have always freely shared your goods with us, in times of need and in times of abundance. We will not turn Our back on you now.”

“But Your Majesty-” The old man’s protest cut off at the king’s raised hand.

“While the thane may watch over them, his people are still Our people.” King Ryan paused to glare at the old man, then turned to Mìcheal once more. “Bring as many of your clan as you can, Thane Michael. We will do Our best to help you through the winter.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Mìcheal bowed low, not quite breathing out in relief. “If there is anything I can do to repay this debt-”

“There is, in fact.” Mìcheal stilled at the king’s words, sounding incredibly smug. “Your people may stay the winter, but you will stay until the next harvestfest. In that time you will teach Our soldiers the way of the mountain warriors. After harvest, you may return to the mountains.”

Mìcheal’s heart hammered away in his chest. To be gone for almost three seasons after the recent tragedies- Everything in his body balked at the thought. Yet he had his people to consider first, all the children and elders that might not survive the coming winter in the mountains. His clan’s survival depended on royal aid, and what was his pride in face of that?

“Your wish is my command, sire.”

 

* * *

 

Michael paused in his training, sword tip stuck in the packed earth of the training grounds. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, purposefully not looking back at his audience. The _thwank_ of arrows filled the air, and Michael tilted his head to watch the archers turn the straw dummies into pincushions.

He’d discarded his fur cape over the fence, allowing the faint breeze to cool his glistening torso. Court might deem this weather as chilled, but Michael was a true northerner, used to the cool climate of the mountains. In comparison, the valley’s spring felt almost cozy.

“Is there something you needed, sire?”

Ryan clapped slowly as he stepped into the fenced off grounds. The archery captain stood at attention, but the king waved him off, walking past until he came to a stop at Michael’s side. The captain hesitated, before turning back to the trainees and calling for the next volley.

“An impressive display,” Ryan murmured, hands dropping to his side. Michael glanced at him from the corner of his eyes, a mischievous grin breaking out on his face.

“The baby archers? I guess.”

Ryan flushed a deep red, and Michael’s grin turned satisfied.

“No! I mean- I meant-”

“At ease, sire,” Michael teased, chuckling at Ryan’s flustered look. He gave the king a moment to gather himself, watching the archers and noting whose arrows hit or at least got close. Then he eyed his companion curiously. “What brings you out here?”

“Inspecting the troops?” Ryan’s voice lilted up into a question by the end, ruining the certainty of his statement. Michael shot him a bemused look.

“Oh? Like what you see?”

Red creeped back up the king’s neck, causing Michael to grin sharply. Ryan cleared his throat.

“I was wondering…” he trailed off, lifting his hand. He shot Michael a questioning look, and when Michael just raised an eyebrow, Ryan reached out slowly.

His fingers trailed over the skin of his arm, tracing between two red streaks of paint Michael put on. Not as a declaration of war, but a reminder: here, he might be _Michael_ , yet underneath the courtly veneer he was _Mìcheal_ still.

Ryan’s hand slid down, touching just below similar markings on Michael’s chest. Heat shot down his spine, and Michael held his breath, sucking in his stomach and flexing. Ryan slid his hand down his chest, over the panes of his stomach before letting his palm rest on Michael’s abdomen. There was no paint for the king to follow down there, no intricate designs to trace except for the hard lines of muscles.

Michael met Ryan’s eyes, took in how they darkened with lust, and quirked his mouth into a smirk.

“Is this how you inspect every soldier, sire?” Michael asked, voice pitched low. Ryan tensed, withdrawing his hand.

“My apologies if I overstepped,” Ryan offered stiffly, taking a step back.

“That depends.” Michael grinned up at the king, predatory and hungry. He followed after, as if drawn in by the king. “On whether or not you intend to follow through.”

“I-” Ryan faltered, staring at him with wide eyes. Michael pushed forward, and Ryan stumbled back, right up against the fence. Michael leaned in, putting a hand on the top bar to each side of the king.

“Yes?”

Ryan licked his lips, eyes darting down and back up to meet Michael’s.

“Yeah,” he breathed, and Michael pressed closer, their thighs brushing together. “That is, if you are interested.”

“Oh, I’m very interested,” Michael rumbled, stepping back with a smirk, before adding fondly, “Dumbass.”

Ryan swayed after him before catching himself. He gave Michael a wide-eyed look, almost pouting. Michael barked out a laugh, brushing past Ryan and knocking their shoulders together as he reached for his furs.

“Maybe somewhere with less of an audience?” he suggested mildly, shooting Ryan a mischievous look. “Unless you’re into that, of course.”

Making the king blush, Michael mused, was its own reward. Made it almost worth it, to be separated from his people.

 

* * *

 

Michael ended up visiting court a lot, more often and longer than his father ever did. The elders watched him with knowing looks, never bringing up marriage or an heir. Michael, aware of how sudden death can come, named one of his younger cousins his successor just in case.

It was towards the end of one such visits that the war council was called.

“Mormaer Eadgar has declared war against Our reign,” Ryan announced to the gathered mormaers and thanes. “If any share his concerns regarding Our… blood and heritage, may they speak up now.”

Silence descended upon the court. The thanes and mormaers exchanged looks, but no one dared step forward. Michael frowned. He’d been aware of the tensions among the clans. Not everyone had been happy when Ryan’s grandfather ascended to the throne through death and trickery, nor did many agree with his father’s choice to marry an Anglo-Saxon princess.

“There is weight to Mormaer Eadgar’s concerns,” Thane Creag broke the silence, stepping forth. “His Majesty has little care for our traditions and rules based on whim alone! He is not fit to be leader of the Scots.”

A murmur went through the crowd, and Michael narrowed his eyes.

“I see,” Ryan murmured, steepling his hands. His eyes were heavy as he regarded the gathered crowd. “Who else agrees with these… sentiments?”

Two more thanes and a mormaer joined Thane Eadgar. Ryan regarded them quietly Michael’s hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, and he took a deep breath before stepping up. Shock filtered through Ryan’s mask, chased by hurt and betrayal. His eyes flickered from Michael to the traitorous thanes and back.

Guilt stabbed through Michael’s heart, but he didn’t slow his steps. In one smooth motion, he drew his sword. Thane Creag’s eyes widened, and then he lost his head. Two more followed before the screaming started, before stopping abruptly as Michael shoved his sword into the mormaer’s chest, pinning him against the wall. His body slid down the wall as Michael stepped back, shaking the blood off his blade.

“I have sworn fealty to my king when I was but eleven years old,” he said into the silence. He lifted his head, glaring out at the crowd of gathered nobles. “I have sworn fealty when I took over as Thane of the Mountains. I hereby swear my fealty thrice over to the one true king: Ryan, King of Scots.”

“Long may he reign,” one lone soul whispered, and the words went like a ripple through the nobles, some joining in hesitantly. Michael, however, sheathed his sword and turned his back on the crowd, kneeling down with his fist pressed to his heart.

“I pledge my life and my sword to your cause, Your Majesty. The clan of the mountains will stand by your side.”

Michael raised his gaze to meet Ryan’s, fierce and burning. Shock had turned to grim satisfaction, with a layer of lust settling over blue eyes. There was a promise in those eyes, and Michael couldn’t look away.

 

* * *

 

Michael followed Ryan into the king’s tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him.

They’d been in strategy meetings all morning, and then spent the afternoon apart, Ryan taking care of logistics, and Michael arranging the patrols. Thane Creag’s successor, Aodhan, had been delayed at the pass by an ambush, and Ryan suspected foul play.

War was exhausting, Michael thought. No true battles had been fought yet, and the tension and skirmishes affected morale.

It was a common sight for the king to invite one of his generals to his tent for a private audience, and no one commented when Michael followed him wordlessly. The moment they were alone, however, he pulled Ryan down into a searing kiss, muffling his protest. He hooked his foot around Ryan’s ankle, toppling the king over, onto the nest of furs they’d made their bed.

“And what was that for?” Ryan complained. Michael shrugged out of his chainmail and carefully laid down his sheathed sword next to the bed.

“You-” He pointed down at Ryan. “-need to take a break. Have you eaten at all today?”

“Not since we broke for lunch,” Ryan admitted grudgingly. Michael stared at him for a long moment.

“Right.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Stay right there.”

Michael poked his head out of the tent and flagged down one of the younger recruits, ordering him to bring them a platter of food. That taken care of, he slipped back inside and laid down next to Ryan, who’d started stripping off his leather armour.

The furs were soft and familiar, each of them a gift Michael brought Ryan over the years. He let his fingers trail along them, his thoughts wandering. Ryan glanced over at him, now only dressed in his undershirt.

“They’re all from you,” he blurted out. Michael looked up and met his eyes, cocking his head. “The furs, I mean. Each year you would bring me a new one-”

“-and you kept all of them.” Michael smiled, and Ryan nodded, reaching out to entangle their fingers. “I know. I picked all of them out personally, too.” Michael ducked his head. “Did you know? Each of these is from my own hunts. It might be customary to gift the first of the firstborn’s to the royal family, but…”

“You brought me one each year.”

Michael shrugged. There was something like awe in Ryan’s voice, like revelation.

“Guess I kinda like you.” Michael grinned, and Ryan groaned, flopping down on top of him. Michael chuckled, relaxing into the bed. “Though I appreciated how little offense you took at my blunt words the most. When we were young, anyway.”

A hand cupped Michael’s cheek, tilting his head up for a kiss. Michael indulged in the soft feeling of lips against his, closing his eyes.

“I do cherish your honesty,” Ryan murmured against the corner of his mouth, before trailing kisses up his cheek. Hot air hit Michael’s ear, and Ryan continued, “But more than that, I value your loyalty.”

“Yet you’re still afraid of losing me.” Michael carded his fingers through Ryan’s hair, opening his eyes just in time to see the flash of guilt. “I’ve sworn fealty to you thrice over, my king. You can’t get rid of me easily at this point.”

“Michael-” Ryan took a sharp breath. He stared into his eyes, serious and desperate all at once. “You’re everything to me. I would gladly go to war for you.”

“Well.” Michael smirked, lightly tugging on Ryan’s hair. “Good thing I feel the same.”

Ryan surged forward, muffling Michael’s giggles with his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always welcome, here or on [tumblr](http://miss-ingno.tumblr.com/)


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